I love to say that word. In it, I hear wistful and will-o'-the-wisp and whisper. I hear hope and faith and wonder. I am reminded of other words I like to hear or say, words like serendipity and lagniappe.
It's fitting that those words come to mind. Look at those lavender blossoms, dripping like purple rain from vine-covered trees. Fortuitous. Beauty. Pulchritude. Deceit.
Maybe it's the untimely death of the artist formerly and presently known as Prince that brought her to mind.
Wisteria draws you in with her scent, then captures your attention with her weeping petals, like a painted lady on the prowl. Captivated, you envision the future: You, relaxing on your patio beneath an arbor covered in deep green leaves and purple blossoms, the humid Southern air drunk with her perfume.
Only she's not beautiful. Wisteria is a stalker and a parasite. Once she finds an opening, she takes root and won't let go. She is a robber, invasive, stealing light and nourishment. She is a murderer, a beautiful, seductive killer. Beware.
My son, be attentive to my wisdom;
incline your ear to my understanding,
that you may keep discretion,
and your lips may guard knowledge.
For the lips of a forbidden woman drip honey,
and her speech is smoother than oil,
but in the end she is bitter as wormwood,
sharp as a two-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death;
her steps follow the path to Sheol;
she does not ponder the path of life;
her ways wander, and she does not know it.
And now, O sons, listen to me,
and do not depart from the words of my mouth.
Keep your way far from her,
and do not go near the door of her house.
Proverbs 5:1-8
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